Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (43 page)

“The pendulum is swinging, that is a fact.
 
It cannot be stopped,” agreed Sherlock.
 
“The establishment for which we work is fighting the anti-Czarist groups, but the Russian Czar would be better served to address his people.
 
In the end, if the Russian government does not, there will eventually be an uprising by the people.
 
This is inevitable.
 
This is out of our hands.”

“What we do here is to apprehend individual criminals who are hurting others,” Dr. Watson added.
 
“Can we fight the bigger tides of human history?”

Mirabella turned to look at Mycroft, her eyebrows knitted together.
 
“Then why is Mr. Mycroft Holmes here, if this case has nothing to do with the British government?”

“This case is much bigger than a single criminal,” Mycroft nodded.
 
“There has been a French Revolution, trouble is brewing in Russia, will there be an English revolution?
 
As a result of the Industrial revolution, the move to the cities, and the child labor?”

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
 
“You wish to stop an English revolution, Mr. Holmes?”

“Don’t you, Miss Hudson?”
 
Mycroft smiled at her.

“Indeed, some of the things we do may yet have far-reaching implications.”
 
Sherlock sighed heavily.

“Why did I get in the cage with the tigers if not to make the world a better place?” Mirabella demanded, placing her hands on her hips.

Sherlock’s expression was suddenly thoughtful, even warm.
 
“You did it for yourself, Miss Belle.”

“I most certainly did not!”

“Are you not a changed woman?” he asked, a sudden tenderness in his eyes, his pipe paused in mid-air.

“Yes, but—“

“And will you not take that change with you when you leave Paris?” Sherlock persisted.

“Well, of course.
 
Naturally—“

“Well then,” the Great Detective shrugged, blowing another ring of smoke.
 
“Most things work out for the best, don’t they, when you follow the path of right?”

“The world is progressing, Miss Hudson,” Mycroft added.
 
“Anyone who believes in doom has the wrong of it.”

“Still, I think you miss the point,” she objected.
 
“You are very happy that an innocent girl should go—”

“Innocent?”
 
Dr. Watson raised his eyebrows, suddenly part of the conversation.
 
“I think not.”

Closed the kind eyes

nevermore the clasp of the faithful hand.

But the clamour and wrath of men are still

where they sweetly rest

And the loved dust is one with the dust of the well-loved land

Earth has taken the wronged and the wronger both to her breast

Cetshwayo sleeps in Inkandhla

Rhodes on Matopo height

Escombe and Osborn alike in the dear Natalian soil

Do they dream?

And what dreams are theirs in the hush of the kindly night?

Never, since time began, has any come back to tell....

O brave, true, loving hearts, at rest from long strife and toil

Mandiza, Sineke, Mamonga, Kebeni, Magema

Hail and farewell!

--Alice Werner

“Myths and Legends of The Bantu”

Ashanti caressed the cheek of her beloved, Ekundayo, the warrior whose bride she was soon to be.
 
She was a coveted princess of the king, but she knew in her heart that Ekundayo loved
her
rather than her place of prestige in the tribe.

She looked past the paint on Ekundayo’s face and into his eyes.
 
She saw the ferocity which was mirrored in her own spirit and the pride and concern for his people which was so like her father, King Cetshwayo.

“Long live the Queen!”
 
The red coats were lined up on the hillside in the intense African heat, shoulders touching, fighting for what they believed to be God and country.
 
But how many countries did they need?
 
And was not their God the God of all?

They were brave men, many of whom would die today, and they obeyed their orders.
 
Whatever they were asked to do they did.

Twenty-five thousand Zulu warriors descended upon the central column, the main body of the three-pronged invasion force.
 
The British rifles were aimed at them, but as the Zulu dropped, more came from behind.
 

The British could not re-load faster than the African warriors could descend.
 
The black men in war paint did reach the redcoats and in
every
case it was one-on-one in the end:
 
one man with a rifle and one man with a spear.
 
There was no other scenario.

And in every case there was no more than one survivor and no prisoners taken.

Ashanti saw the bullet hit Ekundayo’s chest and she saw him fall back, replaced by another young body, as if he were only a painted black body to be replaced, of no meaning to anyone.

To no one except to her, his brothers and sisters, his parents, the children who would have been and the nation which was no more.

“Stop!
 
Stop!”
 
Her sisters grabbed her, holding her back as she sought to die alongside her love.

Each man who dropped, on either side, represented not one life, but all the lives intertwined with that one.

The odds were against the young Zulu warriors though they outnumbered the British ten to one:
 
one in three of the Zulu would die.
 
And most of them would simply be a place holder, having no contact with the enemy.
 

There would be no prisoners, only death.
 
Within six months an entire generation of the feared Zulu would be almost obliterated.
 

And what did the winner take away from this battle?
 
The knowledge that they had won, had obtained their revenge and nothing more.
 
Very little territory would exchange hands.
 

King Cetshwayo, a friend and ally of the British, would go to his grave not understanding why.

As tears rolled down her cheeks, Ashanti looked to the sky and saw diamonds falling from the sky in her mind’s eye, like raindrops.

In the end, Ashanti reflected as she watched the blood flow over her beloved land, it was absurd to feel superior as a result of the technology and the weaponry belonging to the culture one is born into.
 
To have been born into an advanced culture makes one fortunate and privileged, nothing more.
 

Her auntie, the
Sangoma
, had taught her that we are all human and the only characteristic which warrants any claim to superiority is one’s heart.

How do we deal with the poorest and most destitute among us?
 
her Auntie had asked.
 
The answer to this question defines us.

A single hyena watched the blood flowing on the ground from the hillside.
 
He laughed, and then he turned around and returned to the forest.

“Did you get your diamonds back, Ashanti?”
 
Mirabella hugged her friend.
 

“I have not proof they were mine.”
 
Ashanti shook her head while touching her ears, now devoid of jewelry.
 

“Where are the diamonds that were in your ears?” Mirabella asked, alarmed.

“Just these two they were enough to build habitat—like the tigers’ homes in their native India.”

“Not quite enough,” Sherlock stated, entering the tent.
 
“The French Police may have confiscated the diamonds, but Mycroft
persuaded
them to use the proceeds to buy the land surrounding the circus.”
 

“How did he persuade them to do that?” asked Mirabella, suspicious.

“In exchange for keeping Harting’s terrorist tendencies out of the paper, naturally.”

“But you can’t guarantee that no one will find out,” argued Mirabella.

“True, we can only guarantee that
we
won’t be the originator of the information.”
 
Sherlock’s expression was emotionless.
 
“And Mycroft has certain
persuasive
methods.”

“That sounds like blackmail to me,” murmured Mirabella.

“In governmental circles it isn’t called that,” replied Sherlock matter-of-factly.
 
“It’s called
diplomacy
.”

Mirabella thought of asking her friend to come with her again, but she had never seen such a glow in Ashanti’s expression.
 
Ashanti had had a dream, and, for once it had come true.

Oh no!
 
“But did you get anything in writing, Ashanti, when you handed over the diamonds?”

“Yes, I did.” nodded Ashanti, a smile forming on her lips.

“Miss Van Horn received a small lesson in how to deal with the European,” added Sherlock, now standing at the opening to the door of their tent.

“It is difficult system to understand,” Ashanti admitted, “But I am learning.
 
The more I learn, the more I wish to spend rest of my life with tigers.”

“And Mr. Afanasy . . . are you quite safe with him?” asked Mirabella.

Sherlock tipped his hat and exited from the doorway.

“Stanislav?” Ashanti laughed.
 
“He is quite harmless.
 
I will teach him how to handle the tigers in time.”

“Stanislav?
 
Harmless?” repeated Mirabella in disbelief, thinking of the huge man who had shown so much passion and anger.

“At least he tells truth,” stated Ashanti.
 
“Stanislav never lies.
 
I always know what he is thinking.”

“Well, yes,” agreed Mirabella reluctantly.

“And he is fearless, brave.
 
Nothing frighten him.
 
Not even tigers,” she smiled shyly.
 
“It is a good beginning.”

Au Rocher de Cancale, Paris

“I’m so thankful to be able to eat in public again.
 
It appears that you are no longer mortified at being seen with me!” sighed Mirabella, taking a hard-won bite of oysters on the half-shell while sitting outside at the sidewalk café of Au Rocher de Cancale.
 
She glared at the oysters:
 
she had thought it would be quite an elegant thing to order, but it was a very odd taste, almost as odd as caviar, and much more difficult to transfer to her mouth.
 
She wasn’t certain that she liked either.

It’s not always true that the more expensive it is, the better it is
.

But she very much did like having had a hot bath and being able to dress as a woman in public, wearing her best day suit, a form-fitting pink linen day suit, the long fitted jacket hitting her at the hips with a skirt which was looped and draped over a lace ecru underskirt to create a bustle along the hip line.
 
Her satin slippers were much the worse for wear, but no one was likely to see them.

“We were never mortified to be seen with you, Miss Belle.”
 
Sherlock glanced approvingly at her chestnut brown hair arranged atop her head in curls.
 
A wicked smiled formed on his lips.
 
“Only to be obligated to listen to your tongue lashings.”

“You shall hear a great deal over the next few weeks, I assure you, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted.

“No doubt we shall.”
 
But his grey eyes were laughing instead of turning to daggers.
 
Certainly he would not have tolerated these remarks from her even a month prior.

She studied Sherlock’s appearance, which was always interesting, but today was particularly notable in a navy corduroy jacket, a lavender and white striped silk sash around his neck, and a handsome conductor’s hat ornamented with silver embellishments atop his head.

“What is the hat you are wearing, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.
 
“It is most elegant—and decidedly unusual.
 
It has an almost military look to it.”

“I am most disappointed you do not recall it, Miss Belle.”

“It is the good Lieutenant Dubuque’s headgear if I am not mistaken,” murmured Mycroft.
 
“And a bit of a tight fit, I should say.”

“Indeed it is,” nodded Sherlock.
 
“On both accounts.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings among all this admiration, but it is illegal to bestow one’s uniform as a gift,” mentioned Dr. Watson, familiar with rules of the military.
 
“Dubuque could be dismissed from the police force for giving you his hat.”

“
Au contraire
, my good doctor,” stated Sherlock, patting his lips with his handkerchief.
 
“The good Lieutenant—now Capitaine—would merely say I had stolen it, if questioned, which I highly doubt he will be.
 
His reputation is greatly advanced with our recent success.
 
He even has a new office.”

“I for one am very glad to have the case closed,” muttered Dr. Watson.

“Ah, but it was the best of times, my good man,” countered Sherlock.

“It was,” murmured Watson.
 
“And the worst.”

“Speaking of which, Mr. Holmes, you never told me who it was who tried to kill me—in the tigers’ cage that is.”

“Ah, I suppose I didn’t.”
 
He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.